


falling and falling

by Magali_Dragon



Series: one shots and other drabbles [14]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rhaegar Won, Baby Daenerys Targaryen, Baby Jon Snow, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Idiots in Love, King Rhaegar Targaryen, Love, POV Lyanna Stark, Queen Lyanna Stark, Romantic Fluff, Short One Shot, Star-crossed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:41:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23430109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magali_Dragon/pseuds/Magali_Dragon
Summary: Lyanna Stark ponders the different sorts of love she has experienced and seen.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen
Series: one shots and other drabbles [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1567705
Comments: 40
Kudos: 412





	falling and falling

**Author's Note:**

> This is something different from me; it is mostly Lyanna/Rhaegar with some Jon/Dany thrown in for good measure, but it's just a way for me to write a happy Lyanna/Rhaegar + domesticity that both Jon/Dany never got. 
> 
> Enjoy :)

Lyanna Stark thought she had fallen in love before. Several times in fact.

There was the tanner’s son, when she was only seven years of age, with his red hair that curled over his forehead, his eyes bright blue, and freckles across his nose. He had been very kind to her, making her a beautiful bridle for her horse Stormy, stamping a gorgeous array of wolves along the fine black leather. He humored her, when she kept finding reasons to go to the tanner’s shop, trailing after her brother’s and continuing to pull at the straps of her reins and bridle, coming up with any excuse to see him. It didn’t matter that he was about ten years older than her, marrying the blacksmith’s daughter in two or three moons, because she was in _love_.

When he married the blacksmith’s daughter, she felt utterly betrayed, she threw the gorgeous bridle aside, crying and screaming how she would _never_ go to the tanner again. Her father had been beside himself, embarrassed and ashamed, for Starks did _not_ display such tempestuous behavior and such egregious displays of emotion. Her mother even did not know what to do with her, just tried to calm her down, suggest she spend more time embroidering than in the stables with Brandon and little Ned.

There was the hedge knight who came to a tourney in White Harbor when she was about ten years, to celebrate Wyman Manderly’s nameday. She had been allowed to go only because it was still in the North, but if the tourney had been anywhere else, she would have had to remain at Winterfell. He was a bloody handsome knight, made her stomach flip when he removed his shiny helmet. He was from the Reach, she could not even remember his name, just that she _loved_ him and she hoped he would win and maybe even crown her the Queen of Love and Beauty at the end.

He hadn’t won, he did not even acknowledge her, and Brandon made fun of her for thinking she was even enough of a woman for a knight of all men to look upon her. “You’re so skinny!” he snickered. Ned tried to make her feel better, her sweet, quiet younger brother, but she just pushed him aside. She had instead played a prank on Brandon and none of the girls wanted to talk to him, as she had smeared a paste of onions in his leathers and they all thought he stank. Rickard had almost had her hide for it, if he could prove it was her, but he could not. Only because Ned knew nothing of it. She loved her little brother dearly, but if he had known, he would have told in an instant, he never wanted to upset their father.

Brandon might have been right though, as she stared at herself in a looking glass. She was tall for a girl, her dark hair in a strange mop of curls and poker straight strands, often tangled from her braids whipping about while atop her horse. She secretly trained with a sword and lance; she was a better archer than either of her brothers—better even than some of Winterfell’s greatest knights. Except her eyes were gray, not the lovely blue or green of southern ladies. She was very pale, which wasn’t uncommon in the North, but her skin was so milk-white that it looked like she never saw the sun, even if she spent most of her times outdoors. She wasn’t skinny so much as strong, svelte, but it wasn’t the slender beauty of the pretty ladies she had seen in White Harbor’s court or some that ventured from the South, like the Riverlands or the Vale.

There were plenty of boys in between; some she stole kisses from in the godswood or in the stables, a few she even bartered with, exchanging a kiss for a good bit from the blacksmith or a quiver for her arrows. She never went farther than letting a couple touch her breasts; she was no harlot or trollop, she told them. She was not averse to giving up her maidenhead if she truly loved the man; she knew that it was a bartering tool for her father, to gain an alliance with some other noble house. It disgusted her. If she could find someone she loved enough, she would give it away gladly, even if it ruined her reputation.

When Robert Baratheon came to Winterfell, she knew deep in the pit of her stomach that this was the man to whom her father would marry her, before Rickard even broached the topic with the boy that Ned would go to the Eeyrie to foster with. She was not sure why, maybe it was the intense look he gave her, the way he boasted about and how he fought with the other boys—even men—at Winterfell.

“It’s going to be him,” she moped to Benjen, her youngest brother.

“You do not know that.” Poor Benjen, he always thought the best of things.

She shook her head. “No, it’s him.”

And it was; she was no stupid girl, she knew that Robert claimed for all he loved her, he bedded anyone with a pair of breasts and a cunt. Maybe not even breasts, but just a cunt. She would slit her wrists before she had him use her as just a broodmare and she had to find a way out. She did not love him, she wanted to feel _love_. Like how she thought it had been before.

Love, she did not realize, was what it was until she met Rhaegar Targaryen.

Oh, she loved him. She loved him the moment she saw his stupid face, with his stupid purple eyes and his stupid silver hair. The stupid way he held himself, the purse of his lips, the brood in his furrowed frown. The absolutely _stupid_ way he sang and played a harp and brought tears to her eyes.

Because she didn’t love Rhaegar Targaryen. You see, she _hated_ him.

Oh she hated him. She hated everything he stood for. The Crown Prince, barging into Harranhal like he owned the place, everyone bowing and falling to his feet. She sniffed her nose, for she was never interested in princes. They thought everyone owned them the world and she would _never_ fall in love with a prince like some common smallfolk girl. Or all the other girls. She liked that she wasn’t like all the other girls.

She was Lyanna Stark of Winterfell. The She-Wolf of Winterfell. She wasn’t other girls.

Lyanna really hated him when he came upon her in the wood, as she was hurrying to hide away the battered and mismatched armor she had nicked. Her heart hammered in her chest, she was going to be in so much _trouble._ Nay, she was going to be _killed._ No doubt the king was offended that she had not revealed herself to him, had even _joked_ at his expense. Run off before anyone could find out her identity, the hedge knight calling themselves the Knight of the Laughing Tree. When he laughed softly, as she tried to find a place to stash her shield, she thought that was it, she was going to die for certain.

“Lyanna Stark, the Lady of Winterfell,” he murmured, a hand on the pommel of his sword, his black leather gleaming in the sunlight, reflecting off his silver hair. He wore a silver circlet around the crown of his head, which only served to blind her further with his pure beauty.

She sniffed; _might as well go out swinging._ “I am no lady.”

“Quite the contrary I believe.”

He allowed her to go, amused, entertained even, and strung up the shield in the tree, claiming that was all he could find. He allowed her to be free, to become a story that everyone would tell about the Tourney of Harranhal. There were so many stories told from that gathering. Stories of Rhaegar besting Robert, of Jaime Lannister becoming the youngest knight ever and member of the Kingsguard—offending Tywin Lannister that now his heir was his dwarf son instead of his gleaming lion child. Of Ned being so shy to ask Ashara Dayne for a dance that Brandon danced with her instead. To the upset of Ser Barristan Selmy, who loved her dearly.

And then the story of all stories, when Rhaegar walked by his wife and dropped the laurel crown of blue winter roses in her lap. His indigo eyes twinkled; he was honoring her as the true winner of the tourney, for besting the squires who had attacked her friend Howland Reed, and giving her the recognition she deserved, but could never have.

Lyanna Stark realized she had never been in love until that moment; when she was certain that the hate, she felt for the Crown Prince was in actuality intense attraction and love. She knew it could never be; she would be betrothed to Robert Baratheon, would become the Lady of Storm’s End. She wasn’t allowed to have a love match; she certainly was not allowed to have a love match with Rhaegar Targaryen of all people.

And then everything went to absolute fucking shit.

Looking back on the decisions, she wasn’t sure why she took them, just that she loved him, and it made sense at the time. She was blinded by it; blinded by what she felt, the passion between them, and the way he gazed at her, the way he truly loved her. She had no idea that things would end how they did, with his horrid father murdering her brother and her father, with her ravens going undelivered to the North—they explained everything, and Robert ultimately raising banners because his ego could not tolerate Rhaegar Targaryen taking something that he believed was _his property._

It could have ended vastly different, but she somehow ended up in the Red Keep, with Rhaegar as the King, and she was his Queen. She was Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, for poor Elia, who she had no intention of hurting, had died of a fever before the Lannisters attempted to sack King’s Landing, after Jaime Lannister murdered Aerys on the Iron Throne.

She ended up giving birth in the Red Keep, while Rhaegar was off fighting Robert on the Trident. She had no idea what to expect, other than it _fucking hurt_ and whoever the child was certainly had Rhaegar’s dark sense of humor and was stubborn to boot, for she labored for days before the midwife lifted up the bloody, mewling little babe, shouting how she had a son.

“A boy,” she sighed, taking him into her arms. He did not cry; not like how she had heard babies should be crying after birth. He mewled like a kitten—or a wolf pup. His hair was dark as night, eyes peeking gray beneath his almost translucent eyelids. Rhaegar had wanted to name their son after the Conqueror, after his firstborn son had died at the Lannister hands. _Aegon._

Except she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Aegon was Rhaegar’s son with Elia. He deserved his memory as who he had been, not giving his name to another child to carry. There were all the other Targaryen names. Daeron, Daemon, Jaehaerys, Aemon, Lucerys, Jacaerys, and Baelor. All the various derivatives of those names, so many throughout the centuries. Except this was her little northern child with his black curls and gray eyes and quiet nature. Her little wolf cub.

After three days she named him Jon.

And Lyanna Stark realized, as she held her son in her arms, she had never felt love before. No, for this was the first time she truly believed she was in love. In love with her perfect little boy, who preferred to watch the world go by him, never crying unless he needed to feed or had to have his linens changed. He would sleep atop her breast, his tiny hand pressed to it, and she would fall off into dreams with his little puffs of breath tickling at skin.

She thought she was going to die, after she’d given birth to him, fever striking her and her stitches breaking, bleeding out. The midwives and the Maester and every healer in the realm puttered about her bed, but all she wanted was her little boy in her arms. If she would die, she wanted him with her.

Ned came to the Keep with news that Rhaegar had bested Robert. The rebellion was over. He had received a pardon, he was the Lord of Winterfell, he had already been married to Lady Catelyn Tully of the Riverlands, who had been Brandon’s betrothed. He was going to have a child, he told her. Maybe he already had one, he had not heard anything from Winterfell beyond the news that Catelyn had conceived on their wedding night.

Lyanna thought about making a joke, but it might kill Ned, so she remained quiet. She showed him her son, whispering to him as he held his nephew. “I thought I had been in love before, but even with Rhaegar, I never felt this…this gnawing pain in my heart. Like if anyone even thought of causing him harm, I would rip their throat from their necks and make them eat it.”

“The wolf of Winterfell,” Ned had just said to her, smiling.

“Perhaps.”

The love Rhaegar had for his son made her fall in love with Rhaegar even more. When he met him, when she placed the little bundle in his arms, Jon was cooing, in an oddly good mood for he often shared the same pursed brooding look as his father, even as a babe. Her husband and king sang to him every night, cuddled with him in their bed, and Jon grew spoiled and often did not want to sleep in his cradle because he was accustomed to sharing the space between them each evening, or else napping on his father’s chest in the Small Council chambers.

Lyanna knew Rhaegar felt great pain and guilt for what their love had done to the realm, for what their actions had wrought on his family. Elia had died of fever, but Rhaenys and Aegon had been killed as the Martells plotted to get them to safety on Dragonstone. Except Aerys was too paranoid and they had been killed in the escape attempts. She mourned those babes with Rhaegar, mourned Elia—who had been kind and sweet and perhaps could have been her friend in another life.

And she mourned for Rhaegar’s mother, who died in childbirth, almost a year after Jon was born. The raven arrived in the night; it was sopping wet and battered, almost expiring as it landed in the Maester’s tower, from a frightful storm that had been railing from the Blackwater Bay, the worst storm in a century. Rhaegar left that evening, ignoring her calls for him to stay, to wait for it to pass, but he swept on his cloak, and kissed her and Jon goodbye.

“My brother and newborn sibling need me,” he said.

Lyanna paced with Jon for days, until Rhaegar returned, with sullen Viserys on his pony and a sling with a tiny bundle strapped over his chest. She went to the yard, to greet him, Jon on her hip, shoving his pudgy fingers into his mouth and his black curls tickling her chin with each movement of his head.

“May I introduce to you the Princess Daenerys,” Rhaegar announced, turning the bundle to face her, after he’d descended his stallion. Lyanna gazed upon the most perfect porcelain face, so still it might have been a doll. The babe had the pinkest lips, soft apple cheeks, and wisps of silver hair dusting her forehead from beneath her bonnet. A tiny hand curved out of her blankets, each finger delicate and her skin almost see-through. “She has violet eyes,” he said, in awe. “She’s the most beautiful child.”

Jon leaned over in her arms, staring at his aunt. He giggled and tried to poke at her. “Bah!”

“I think he’s trying to say baby!” Rhaegar crooned, laughing. “So clever, my son, yes she is a baby.”

Viserys climbed off his pony and stood quietly next to Rhaegar. Lyanna’s heart broke for him and she went to place her hand on his shoulder, guiding him to her. “Come,” she said. “Let’s go in and see what the cook has made. I believe the baker was planning on making some biscuits with spices from Essos.” She passed Jon to Rhaegar, who delighted in holding his baby sister in one arm and his son in another, continuing their introduction. There was something in his eyes, she wasn’t quite sure what it was, but she allowed him his fanciful daydreams.

Lyanna fell in love with Rhaegar, she fell in love with her son, and soon enough she fell in love with the sweet child that was Daenerys Targaryen, Princess of the Seven Kingdoms. It was motherly, but also sisterly, and she struggled to reconcile them. She had never had a little sister and doted upon her as such, but she also knew she would likely never have another child—not after the damage she had sustained to her womb after Jon’s birth. She knew the child had no mother and even when the wet nurse took time with her, sometimes at night, when Daenerys cried, unable to be sated, she took the child to her breast and fed her.

Jon sometimes got jealous, but he would share a cradle with Daenerys—Rhaegar had taken to calling her ‘Dany.’ “It is easier for Viserys to say, he calls her it too,” he said when she had asked why the nickname. Whenever he shared Dany’s cradle, Lyanna would watch in awe as they calmed around each other. He would reach a hand to touch her little face when she fussed, and then she would quiet. Or Jon would cry during storms, but Dany thrived during them, and she would curl against him and he’d shush.

“It’s so strange, it is almost like they are twins,” she told Rhaegar once, as she watched Dany toddle around while Jon tried to throw a ball in her direction to play, except she would rather chase him instead.

Rhaegar did not few it in those terms. “Or soulmates,” he said.

“I suppose.”

Lyanna loved Daenerys, she loved Viserys even, and she loved her little family, even if there were still those that sought to destroy it. Every so often politics and power games got in the way. Rhaegar would need to venture out for months at a time to control the realm. She did her duty as Queen, but Rhaegar gave her ruling power in her own right, and she managed the Small Council as his Hand in his absence. Well, she and Arthur Dayne—his best friend and closest confidant.

Lyanna Stark knew love in many forms by the time she saw it in another. It took her some time to realize it, but she knew the young girl love that shined in Daenerys Targaryen’s eyes when the child was only ten and two years. She also knew the painful, unrequited love that shined in her son’s eyes as well. “Oh no,” she mumbled, that day in court when she’d finally noticed it.

Dany could not stop mooning over Jaime Lannister—pardoned for his crimes and now one of the closest of Rhaegar’s Kingsguard—while Jon could only pine after Dany. It was certainly going to result in some significant heartbreak.

Which of course it did, with Dany realizing that Jaime Lannister was never going to love her as she loved him. A trial all young girls must go through, Lyanna thought, thinking of her affection for the tanner’s son back in Winterfell. She stroked Dany’s hair while she cried, saying how she was never going to love another boy ever again, because they were just awful.

It was funny to Lyanna, because as children Dany had followed Jon everywhere and he had not been able to tolerate it. He was a quiet, brooding child—like his father—who did not know what to do with the fiery and rambunctious girl that was Daenerys. Dany always said they would marry, she ensured everyone who ever met them would know it, and she always asked for stories of Alysanne and Jaehaerys, who married each other and ruled for many years and whose children would go on to create many branches of the Targaryen tree.

“Do you think we ought to work out a betrothal agreement for Dany soon?” Rhaegar asked her once, as they prepared for bed. He was fussing with his hair, which was knotted from the crown he’d had to wear that day and the braids he’d been keeping it in. Lyanna rolled her eyes at his frustrations, going over and beginning to work out the knots herself, her fingers loose and gentle in the silver strands. He sighed. “She is nearing ten and four, most girls her age have already been married.”

“And that is the old way of things, not the new, the way you want to change this world,” Lyanna reminded him.

“Hmm, yes.”

She thought of Dany. She thought of Jon. She smiled briefly. Viserys had already married Arianne Martell, in the sort of ‘apology betrothal’ to the Martell family for all that had occurred during the rebellion. They were living in Dorne at the moment, because Arianne refused to live anywhere north of the Red Mountains, claiming it was too cold for her hot blood. Since Viserys associated the Red Keep with all the traumas of his childhood and since he hated Dragonstone, he was fine with staying as far away from them as possible.

There would of course need to be matches made for political gain, but she thought of her love for Rhaegar, she thought of the love for Dany and Jon...she smiled, kissing his cheek, looping her arms around his shoulders and squeezing him lightly. “I have a plan,” she announced.

“Oh?”

“Hmm…you may not like it.”

“I am positive I will not, with that look you are giving me.”

“Give them a few years.”

Rhaegar frowned. “Give who a few years?”

Lyanna simply smiled.

It happened on Jon’s ten and seven nameday. Lyanna had suspected for a long time, but she had no proof. Until she got up in the night, her back paining her as it did some moons, and slipped on her robe, leaving Rhaegar to snore away in their bed and go to the kitchens to find herself some hot water for tea. She could have summoned a chamber maid or have one of the guards do it, but she wanted to walk, stretching her legs a bit to help soothe the pain.

She had walked by the closed door to Jon’s chambers when she heard it.

Sounded like a crash.

She paused, glancing at Jaime Lannister, who was on guard duty in the corridor that evening. He immediately looked away. _Hmm._ She approached Jon’s door, listening closely. She did not hear anything, until she heard a giggle.

_A feminine giggle._

_Oh my_ , she thought, pulling back and arching her brow. She leaned closer, wondering who Jon had managed to sneak into his rooms. Under her nose, Rhaegar’s nose, and the Kingsguards’ nose. Not that it was entirely difficult, with all the secret passageways of Maegor’s Holdfast. She honestly did not think her son had it in him. He was a consummate rule-follower, just like Ned had been.

“Shh!”

Another giggle. “Well you knocked it over!”

“They’re gonna’ hear you!”

“Oh who cares, don’t we want to tell them soon?”

 _Who did he have in there?_ Lyanna strained even closer, until she heard Jaime’s loud throat-clear behind her. She scowled at him. “Do you mind? I’m trying to eavesdrop on my son and the girl he has in there.” She narrowed her eyes. “Unless you don’t happen to plan on telling me?” All she knew was that if it was Margaery Tyrell, Lyanna was going to strangle someone. The pretty rose from Highgarden had been insufferable, she was begging Rhaegar to just have Ned agree to the betrothal between Margaery and Robb Stark, because Jon would not be able to handle it. Plus, Lyanna wouldn’t be able to handle it. Margaery’s grandmother was one of Lyanna’s favorite people in the world, but full-time dealing with the young woman’s backhanded compliments and constant plotting, she was going to go full wolf on her soon enough.

“Kingsguard keeps the secrets for the Royal Family,” Jaime said, rather pompously. Except for the fact that his smirk also belied a bit of nervousness, the way his green eyes darted down the corridor, as though expecting someone to come wandering around the corner to find him betraying the secrets of his order. _Tough talk from someone who murdered the King,_ Lyanna thought.

“Even from the royal family’s mother?”

Jaime winced, when she stalked him like the wolf she was. He no longer seemed as certain. “Um, yes?”

“Hmm.”

Without waiting for Jaime to say another word, she stalked back to her son’s door, rapping sharply on the frame. “Jon!” she called. She listened, a tiny smile flirting on her lips when she heard the dead silence from within suddenly break; a female voice hissing.

“It’s your mother!”

“Quick, hide!”

After a moment, the door cracked open, her son standing there, pale cheeks flushed and wearing loose tunic and trousers. “Mother,” he said, trying to smile, head cocking slightly to the side. It gave him the same sort of look as his direwolf, Ghost, who often would give her the same expression when she caught him trying to sneak treats from the table. “Ah…what…what are you doing here so late?”

Lyanna peeked into the room, noting the tousled bed, the sheets tangled at the bottom of the mattress. Her stomach clenched, her jaw tightening. She pushed her son aside, stepping in and scanning the space. Hands on hips, she studied the wall where she knew there was a secret passageway behind a tapestry of wolves running by a weirwood tree. She marched straight towards it, pulled the tapestry back, and pressed on the stone, tugging back to reveal the last person she expected.

Although she really should have expected it.

_Daenerys_

“Dany!” she yelped.

Her goodsister stood in her night shift, her silver braids a mess around her head, struggling to keep hold of her robe, which Lyanna noted at been torn slightly. She swallowed hard at the implications. There was beard burn along Dany’s slim neck, bruises forming on her collarbone. “Lyanna,” Dany said, voice weak. She gulped. “Fancy…fancy seeing you here.”

Lyanna turned, gaping, at Jon, who appeared ready to sink into a puddle on the floor, his face as red as the weirwood’s leaves. She glanced between the two of them several more times, trying to understand exactly what was happening. She glanced at the bed and then to her son again, her gray eyes fixing straight on his, which kept trying to look anywhere but at her. “Oh, we have a lot to discuss,” she murmured, reaching in and tugging Dany from the passageway. She turned the young princess around, marching her towards the door. “Off you get to your chambers.”

“Lyanna, don’t tell Rhaegar!”

“I’ll speak with you soon.”

“No!” Dany pushed by her again, grabbing hold of Jon’s arm, fire burning in her violet eyes. It was the same look as Rhaegar, when he was hells-bent on pressing forward with an issue or matter at hand, damn all the consequences. She pulled Jon against her, fingers threading into his hands, glaring over at her. “I will not leave him. If you have come to punish him, you must punish me as well.”

And her son reached for the woman at his side, the same look in his eyes, except she akined it more to ice than fire. They were the opposites, but they were also the same, she realized, mouth pressing in a firm line. _Like two sides of a coin._ “Mother, we were going to speak to you and Father about this, but…Dany and I are getting married. No matter what you say.” He glared at her, challenging her, the beta wolf seeking to upend the alpha’s reign.

So, on her son’s seven and ten nameday, Lyanna Stark realized that he was hopelessly and desperately in love. The same sort of love she felt for Rhaegar, the same sort of love she had always wondered if he would feel one day. She tried not to smile; tried to remain stern and maintain a sense of control over the situation, but she had suspected. Now she had the confirmation.

Dany and Jon, it later came out, had been sneaking into each other’s rooms for the last year, finally realizing that what they felt for each other was not simply infatuation or teenage attraction, desire to experiment with their new bodies and emotions. They loved each other, they were Alysanne and Jaeherys, they were Daemon and Rhaenyra, they were Baelon and Alyssa. It was as though they had consulted the Targaryen history books, the way they spouted off all the evidence justifying their union, how there was no reason for either of them to marry another lord or lady, because what would the family gain from such union?

“Jon is the Crown Prince, he is the Prince of Dragonstone, and the Prince of Dragonstone _always_ marries within the family, it is the way it should be!” Dany yelled, throwing things at her brother, even though Rhaegar had not said one word, in his private study, sitting at his desk, while his little sister railed on him and his son stood stoically at his love’s side.

Lyanna did not need to convince Rhaegar too much, other than to remind him that when Alysanne married Jaeherys, she ran off to join him at Dragonstone. “And remember all the other Targaryens who refused to do what was set forth for them? They created wars, they brought fire and blood upon the ones on the other side, and in some cases they abandoned their families.” She sat in his lap, brushing some white hairs away from his temple, tucking them back in his silver tresses; he was tired. She knew ruling weighed hard on him. This was just one more thing he did not need to think about. She smiled softly at him. “Do you want them to escape to Essos? To never be seen again? Viserys does not want to rule, too much pain has shaped his view of the Iron Throne, he wants nothing to do with it. Where will it go from there? His son?”

There were very few heirs to the Iron Throne. Other than Jon, it was Viserys. And Viserys’s son Aerion, who was only five years of age. The only other Targaryen was Maester Aemon, bound to service to the Night’s Watch and well over four and one-hundred years of age. She knew that Rhaegar was contemplating upending the traditions, to give Daenerys the chance to rule, for Jon would do this duty as the heir, but they both knew his heart lay within the North, with service to his realm in other ways than sitting in a throne.

“I ran off with you and we started a war,” she reminded him. She kissed his nose, earning an amused nose wrinkle and furrowed brow. She smiled, stroking his face. “They love each other Rhaegar, it is more than a young girl and boy succumbing to their emotions. It runs deeper than that and you know it.”

It did not take her convincing, she knew Rhaegar was already convinced, for he had seen it too. Ever since Dany stopped crying when Jon went to her crib or when Jon found his confidence in the presence of the young dragon girl. Rhaegar gave his blessing to them to marry, provided they wait at least a year.

They agreed, with the provision that they could tour the realm together. “In an effort to encourage the lords and ladies of the realm to our particular style of rule,” Dany said. She frowned. “Not that we should have to encourage them, but you understand.”

Lyanna only smiled; Daenerys was going to be queen in her own right, that was for certain.

Years passed; Lyanna witnessed the love her son and goodsister shared for each other blossom and deepen further, as they married in the Sept of Baelor in deference to the Faith of the Seven—as the Targaryens always had and then travel North to marry in the godswood of Winterfell, with her brother overseeing the ceremony. It was at this wedding where she truly saw it, standing beside her love, the one she threw away everything to be with. She leaned against him, as snow fell in a blanket around them, quieting everything and casting a strange pearly glow upon the weirwood and the couple who were kneeling before it.

Rhaegar sighed and she thought she saw a tear track out of the corner of his eye. She smiled, reaching to brush it aside. “Copper for your thoughts?” she murmured, hugging her fur cloak around her, even if the cold of the nighttime in the North only served to thicken her blood, and provide her with energy, like the wolf she was.

“I just remember when we were that young, how the only thing that got us through was our love. I suppose I did not think that I would see it again.” He mused, glancing down at her, smiling. “And I suppose I really did not believe it would be between my little sister and my son.”

“Love is the death of duty, as Maester Aemon told you.” The wise Maester could not travel from the Wall to be there for the ceremony, but she hoped he knew just how much they missed him there. They would be traveling soon to visit the Night’s Watch and she looked forward to seeing him. She loved him as she had loved her father and wished they could convince him to live the rest of his life in the warmth of the south, but he was a Night’s watchman, he was fulfilling his duty, he always said.

Rhaegar nodded, as Jon and Dany stood from the weirwood, the direwolf Ghost bouncing at their feet. He smiled, squeezing her hand. “I am grateful my son chose love over duty,” he murmured.

 _As am I,_ Lyanna thought.

Love came in many different forms, Lyanna thought, several moons later, as she studied her newborn grandchild in her arms. She thought she had felt it when she was a young girl and then as a teenager and then as a woman grown. She thought she felt it when she held her son in her arms and again when she became the mother to a motherless little girl. When she saw it in her son’s eyes as he married the love of his life.

It filled her with a sense of awe, of the inability to control, and just run with it, like a wolf in the wood. She was lucky to feel it so many times in her life, and now she got a chance to see it in another form, as she grinned at her little granddaughter, walking back and forth with the child asleep in her arms, cooing at the little babe with her dark hair and violet eyes.

“You are a very lucky little girl,” she whispered to her, tapping the nose that was so much like Jon’s. Except she had Dany’s frown. She stood in one of the arches, gazing down at the yard in Winterfell, where Dany had already gotten herself out of bed and was speaking with Ned, Robb, and Jon, pointing out something in the distance, no doubt arguing on behalf of women, children, or refugees from beyond the wall, a topic that had become quite important for them. It was in deference to Jon, to her, that they came north for the child’s birth, wanting their child to identify immediately with an important part of their heritage.

The babe peered up at her, as if asking _“Why?”_ Lyanna chuckled, and continued to walk, to soothe, murmuring. “Because you get to see love in so many different ways, in ways that I do not think even your parents quite understand.”

 _Or even me_ , she thought, humming to herself and going to sit in the chair in the corner, gazing at her granddaughter, succumbing to the new love flooding through her.

**fin.**

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
